Into the Fire: Rise of the Red Star
by WaffleGoddess
Summary: Beware the rise of the red star.


Into the Fire: Rise of the Red Star

All characters © to their respective owners

Don't sue me.

Whose woods these are I think I know.  
His house is in the village though,  
He will not see me stopping here  
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it's queer  
To stop without a farmhouse near,  
Between the woods and frozen lake,  
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake  
To see if there is some mistake,  
The only other sound's the sweep  
Of easy wind and downy flake.

These woods are lovely, dark and deep,  
But I have promises to keep,  
And miles to go before I sleep,  
And miles to go before I sleep.

-Robert Frost

Prologue

_I've always hated the desert._

High above in the sky, dark tattered shapes wheeled and cawed harshly into the pale blue emptiness. The Psychopomps loomed over the desert, watching, waiting.

_Somewhere out there, there's a grave with my name on it._

The desolate, ancient highway stretched into what seemed like vast eternity for both directions. To either side was the monotonous, barren wasteland where howling winds scraped at the parched hardpan, stirring up clouds of blinding dust in a desert of sunbleached-bones.

_The grave lies empty. Only stagnant air, rotting wood…nothing more._

Here and there, withered weeds grew in shriveled misery. The air was filled with dust, which drifted from the skies, swirling and dancing as they were carried by the winds. Furnace heat created shimmering, wavering ripples of hot air over the scorched earth.

_My name? It matters little to you. It has long since been forgotten. After all, the world has moved on, and those who knew me are long dead and buried, their bones scattered as dust upon the wind._

A movement on the highway; a stirring of shadows were the only whisper of life. Soft footsteps echoed hollowly. Coupled with the toneless shrieking of the winds, it was eerily foreboding in this silent, dead land.

_My feet have pounded out innumerable weary footfalls upon those dusty, timeworn paths. Time is meaningless to me. All there is for me now is eternity. This is what hell is._

A twisted, rusty sign was bent at an awkward angle to the side of the highway, with a cluster of weeds growing at its base. It had long since been tarnished and worn away by time, but part of the faint, old-fashioned lettering was still just barely legible.

**U TE 125  
F…………D S D S D S **

And across the sign, splashed in red paint over the original text was:

MOLOCH IS NIGHTMARE!  
WAKE UP MOLOCH! MOLOCH!  
DEAD LIGHT STREAMS OUT OF THE SKY!  
MOLOCH IN SMOKING TOMB OF WAR!

A shrieking gust suddenly whipped up a whirling cloud of dust and ash; pulling up the sign, which drifted across the highway with the ebb and flow of the winds.

_I walk upon the endless paths of the world as a nameless, faceless wanderer. I am a relic of a lost, hated world that should have stayed dead. I am cursed to my fate, to walk this meaningless journey forever, leaving behind only footprints and a faint echo of memory._

The cloud of dust slowly began to erase the freshly laid footprints, filling in the dirty, upturned mounds of dust.

_Of course, they say the end is just another beginning._

* * *

If, one cold, harsh winter night, you had wanted to find the pub that had been praised as one of the best pubs in the whole of Eagleland, you would have had to head west out of Toto Port and south into the hotspot for vacation, Summers, which was consisted of a massive beach, and even more massive skyscrapers and buildings crammed together. 

The western business district of Summers was bleak and crammed with buildings. There was the fortune-telling shop, the police station, the deserted apartment complex, a domed stadium, among countless other buildings dotting the area. And, near the end of the town, set off a little way from the other buildings and resting on the edge of the big empty, you found your pub—the simplistically-named Outside Bar, an apartment turned pub.

If you glanced downwards, beside the doorframe on the dirt where the light spilled out from inside, you'd see a little puppy as it dozed, paws twitching. And inside the apartment-converted-bar, walking towards the bar, past the hunched, murmuring customers huddled around tables with blue cigarette smoke wafting above them, you would have found a man—tall, with good posture, a dark brown coat covering most of his body, and a pair of scuffed boots. Tarnished silver necklaces with strange runic designs and symbols clinked quietly around his neck. His face was pale, a deathly white.

Nobody noticed his eyes were an odd, intense shade of red.

The man was alone, the only one sitting at the bar for the moment. The bartender and owner of the Outside Bar, glanced at him with mild interest. He didn't know the his name…he didn't think anyone did. But he dropped in here once every while. He seemed fairly young, but spoke with a dry rasp and bitterness.

The bartender knew virtually nothing about the him, except that he always came in alone, always sat at the bar, and he always left the way he had come—alone.

Venus, one of the assistant bartenders and waitress, was always eager to invent tales about the stranger's origins. Venus had a big mouth and a penchant for wild gossip. He and Venus had never known the stranger's real name, so they commonly referred to him as Paleface, though never to his face, of course. The name was self-explanatory.

Tonight, Paleface seemed a bit distracted, as tonight he kept his face low, staring into the glassy countertop, gazing at his reflection.

The bartender supposed it was possible that Sir Paleface had a touch of the flu. There was a lively virus going around right now. He got a glass and reached for the shelves of liquor.

"C'mere. No drinks for me tonight."

He turned back, startled—and when Sir Paleface looked up from the countertop, he was suddenly frightened. Because Sir Paleface didn't look like he had the virus that was going around, or anything like that. He looked intent, focused in the way that a monster would look at it's cowering prey. Cold, expressionless….inhuman.

Someone dropped a quarter into the juke-box, and a song came on about floating alphabet letters and wishes that came true. The bartender was of the private opinion that those who wrote such nonsense should be dragged outside into the streets and shot. But at the moment, all his attention was focused upon his customer.

"You all right, Sir?"

Paleface smiled. The smile was ghastly, horrible. It was like watching a corpse smile.

"Don't worry, it's just the old sickness. You can stop your pretense, you know."

"Sir…?" he asked cautiously. His tone was suddenly guarded.

"Don't play games with me. I know who you really are. I can tell—the royalty of Dalaam can easily disguise themselves, but aren't very secretive. Not very intelligent either."

His temper flared, and he struggled to keep it under restraint. "Who the hell are you?"

"Down, boy. I've got something to show you."

Paleface reached into his pocket. He heard a muted clink. The stranger dropped a strange stone on the counter, where it gleamed under the soft lights.

"Wh-what—how…?"

"There's more out there, you know."

He barely heard the stranger. He was staring at the stone with a sort of horrified fascination. He'd heard of the fabled Mani Mani statue before, but never imagined its existence to be real. He suddenly wished it wasn't.

He stepped quickly backward. His back hit the shelves and glassware clattered slightly as they knocked together.

"Wuh-what do you want from us?" He asked through numbed lips, voice trembling.

Paleface leaned against the counter, staring deep into the young bartender's eyes. There was no humanity in his gaze.

"I know your family has one of them, Prince Poo. You can't hide their stench—no matter how well you hide them, I'll always find them. Sin calls to sin, Poo. I know you probably had no idea—after all, you're only a prince, aren't you? But this is what you'll do, Poo. You'll go to your father. You'll tell them that I know you've got the statue. And I will be back…to collect my due. Tell them that."

"Sir—!"

"Tell them, Poo," he repeated, and slipped out into the night.

_(he will be back to collect his due)_

"What the blue _hell?"_ Venus asked, but Poo ignored her. He ran over to one of the windows. He only saw a flash of light and a giant cloud of dust.

"What did he say to you?" Venus asked nervously, a lipstick-stained cigarette dangling out of her lip. Poo turned to her, shaking his head.

"It doesn't matter. Can you watch the counter for a minute? I've got to make an emergency phone call."


End file.
